


Captivation

by Ms_Moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captivity, Coercion, F/M, Knives, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Moriarty/pseuds/Ms_Moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft can’t get any information out of James Moriarty - not even after weeks of interrogation. Anthea, however, offers to help get the information the government needs - but it’s not clear whose side she is on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"James Moriarty," Mycroft strides into the cell. "I believe you have something that I want. And I'm afraid," he doesn't sound any particular emotion at all, "you won't be leaving until I get it."

Moriarty simply stares into Mycroft's eyes, cold and calculating, but above all else, completely silent. His breathing is barely audible, and his pulse regular. Many times before has Mycroft seen someone this calm before interrogation, but to be this calm moments afterward was almost entirely unheard of. It took most of Mycroft's effort to seem as unmoved as the criminal mastermind. Moriarty's callousness is, in all honesty, infuriating him.

"You  _will_ have to talk eventually. We can keep you here indefinitely," Mycroft sighs. While that is technically true, there is no reason to keep Moriarty if they can get nothing out of him. If he remains silent, eventually a time will come when Mycroft will let Moriarty go, just to allow him enough leeway to make a mistake.

Moriarty's entire face is pink and raw from repeated blows. Bruises and cuts line both of his arms, and yet, the man is as calm as the day he was arrested. Mycroft wonders if they will ever be able to get Moriarty to crack. He sincerely doubts it.

"We will give you one hour to reconsider."

The threats are all implied. In an hour, hired thugs will be allowed in again, Moriarty will be subjected to more violence, and of course, Moriarty will simply take it. There will be no information exchanged. The best Mycroft hopes for is that  _eventually_  Moriarty will give in. Even if it takes a month or more. But he honestly and sincerely doubts that this interrogation process will yield any information whatsoever.

Mycroft exits the cell precisely as he entered, dignified and unemotional. However, as the door locks behind him, he can't help but place his head in his hands. It is not often that the eldest Holmes brother expresses emotion, but the entire situation seems hopeless.

"Sir, if I may," Anthea offers, looking up from her mobile, slightly but not visibly alarmed by Mycroft's sudden display of distress, "Is there any chance that I might be able to get something out of him?"

Mycroft shakes his head at his assistant, "We haven't been able to get anything out of him for weeks, even with interrogation and torture. What could you possibly provide that hasn't already been attempted?" It is intended as a rhetorical question, not an accusation of inadequacy. Mycroft is at a loss, and simply does not know how anything could get Moriarty to talk.

"All your...  _interrogators_  have been male," Anthea notes, as she looks back at her mobile to continue her text. "Perhaps he would be more likely to open up to someone who seems to pose less of a threat?"

The idea seems absurd, but at this point, Mycroft sees little hope for the continuation of his current methods. The slightest chance of progress is enough to allow the proposition. Anthea has passed all the security checks, and she won't be in danger of reacting badly to Moriarty. She hardly ever reacts to anything. The prisoner is handcuffed to his chair, and his ankles securely tied. It only takes Mycroft a few seconds to consider.

"Wait an hour. We will catch him off guard when he doesn't receive the beating he's expecting."

In the meantime, they wait.

Sixty minutes pass, and Anthea enters the cell. Moriarty's eyes betray only a half second of surprise as the woman takes the seat across from him.

"So," Anthea begins, casually, but without any real emotion. "Is there anything you have to say for yourself?"

At first Moriarty pauses, as if appraising the situation. This is certainly a new tactic, and he takes the time to understand the implications. After a few moments, he then proceeds to do something he has not done in the entirety of his captivity. He moves voluntarily. He shifts his gaze upward to the camera in the corner of the room, staring directly into the lens. It is clearly a challenge, and Anthea notices.

"They're just as much for my safety as they are for you," she begins sending a text to Mycroft:

**Can you cover the cameras and mirror? I may be able to get him to talk if it's just me. -A**

She looks back up at Moriarty, who has not shifted his gaze from the camera, "But I'll see what I can do." Her mobile buzzes.

**If that's what it takes, the cameras are off. You have ten minutes before we establish contact again. Be careful. -MH**

Anthea stands, and shows Moriarty the texts, as two men enter the cell carrying sheets. They pin the coverings over the camera and two-way mirror, then leave without a word. Anthea slides her mobile into her pocket, and her hands feel remarkably naked without it.

"Better?" she asks, once the door is closed.

Moriarty is handcuffed to the chair, but he manages to turn his wrists upward and point in the general direction of his ears.

Anthea shakes her head, "They don't have visual or audio. The cameras are off."

Moriarty opens his mouth, and carefully forms the words without speaking.  _Prove it._

Anthea smiles. She had been expecting this from the moment Moriarty stared into the lens of the security camera. She was never one for theatrics around Mycroft, as he would simply never tolerate dramatization. With him, it was best to remain silent and follow orders. However, she has read Moriarty's file several times over and seen the way he operates. Cleverness will get him to open up long before violence or careless speech. The obvious answer would be to strip and prove she wasn't wearing a wire. A bit too intimate, and instead, Anthea, being an intelligent and resourceful government employee, has planned the unexpected.

She lets out a blood-curdling scream.

As the sound dies away, Moriarty's astonishment becomes mingled with obvious amusement. When nothing happens for a full eight seconds, he laughs madly, his smile so wide Anthea could count his teeth if she were so inclined. He makes a movement as if he had intended to clap, but realises his hands are still restrained.

"Well, well, well. What a  _show,_ " he croons, his head rocking slightly back and forth, voice a bit rough from more than a week of disuse. "Very clever!" He intentionally pulls his hands and legs against his restraints, "I don't assume you could help me..."

"Anthea," she offers. "I'm afraid not. Too much of a personal risk," she smiles, albeit half-heartedly.

"Probably for the best," Moriarty smirks. "I can be a bit... dangerous."

"So I've heard," Anthea responds, disinterested.

"You want the computer code."

"Yes."

"You can't have it," he blinks twice in rapid succession, tilting his head slightly to the right, cracking his neck.

"We'll see. At any rate, we can work up to that," Anthea explains. "How about we start small? Why don't you tell me about yourself."

"Nothing much to tell, I'm afraid," he looks vaguely surprised that she would ask him such a mundane question. "I'm sure you've done your research. Why should I bore you with the details?"

"Because I asked." It's not a threat, and Moriarty notices. She may actually be  _interested_. Most people would be curious as to how someone becomes a questionably sane criminal mastermind, after all. It intrigues some, and repulses others, but everyone is  _curious_. Everyone wants to know if it could have been  _them_ , or someone they know. Their lover, next-door neighbour, co-worker...

"Do you have any gum?" Anthea is almost baffled by the sudden question, and Moriarty's suddenly pleading puppy dog eyes.

She pauses briefly, "Afraid not."

"Shame," he sighs dramatically, "They've been feeding me through a straw, just so they don't remove the handcuffs more than necessary. I'm _dying_  to chew on something."

Of course they don't want the liability of Moriarty loose. Anthea carries on, "What was the first law you ever broke?"

"Oh, as if you care. Don't bore me," he rolls his right wrist in the handcuff dismissively, a deliberate attempt to contradict what he suspects to be true.

Anthea shrugs, sounding disinterested as always, "Maybe I do care. Who says I don't?"

Moriarty barely suppresses a sideways smile. "In that case... my answer depends on your view of legality. I'm sure I've driven over the speed limit a few times."

"First felony then."

"I don't like getting my hands dirty," he blinks again, as if his answer should have been obvious.

"So you're saying you don't commit crimes," Anthea almost smiles at the absurdity. "At least... not felonies."

Moriarty shrugs as much as he is able with his hands tied to the seat of the chair, cocking his head. "There's no fun in it. The thrill is in the planning. I could hardly care less if they were actually committed, except I  _do_  like to know if a plan works," this calculated move is a risk, and Moriarty knows it. He wouldn't have his life any other way than bordering on masterful execution and utter ruin. The frailty of genius...

The admission is vague enough he can't be pinned down for anything. Especially if he didn't commit the crime, and didn't exclusively order it. Thanks to his careful planning, the names of most of his associates are still unknown, and no one would be willing to testify against him. It could be an admission to any misdeed. Honestly, it's a confession of many, but there's no way they can know which ones. As it happens, the answer is many of them, in varying degrees of illegality.

Anthea is not at all surprised. It's all in the file.

"How did you start planning crimes?"

Moriarty looks like this is exactly the type of question she should have been asking all along, "When I was a boy," he begins, "I started putting together puzzles. Starting with the small, easy ones, and worked my way up to more complicated ones. One day, there was a piece in the box that didn't fit. It belonged to another puzzle, but I liked the colours. So I took the piece and cut the edges until it fit."

"Is that so?" Anthea sounds sceptical.

He looks pleased with himself, "Does it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't," she sounds as if she still wants to know if it's true.

"Nice story though, isn't it?" he beams.

"A bit too sentimental," Anthea remarks coolly.

"Maybe," he acknowledges. "But it makes for a good conversation starter.  _Poor_  little Jim with his puzzles. What a natural progression! He was born this way, it couldn't be helped," his tone is mocking, "People like to remove blame."

Anthea raises he shoulders, "Some people are just naturally..."

"Disturbed?" Moriarty offers, "Are they though? It's  _so_ hard to tell. Too many variables."

"Well, some good people come from bad homes, and vice versa."

"Children can form their own ideas though, can't they," it isn't a question. "We aren't all blank slates. Though most people are comparatively... dull. Predictable."

"Perhaps," Anthea acknowledges. "We only have a few more minutes," she warns, checking the time on her mobile.

"I know. What a shame," Moriarty grins, shaking his head.

"You've been remarkably talkative today, Mr Moriarty. That is most certainly to your advantage, and I'm comfortable saying that you will be duly rewarded. Is there anything else you would like to say before I go?"

"Oh, no, I think I've talked enough for one day. Wouldn't want to give away  _all_  my secrets," he smiles and licks his lips.

Anthea smiles back, realising that neither of them has said anything of consequence. She pulls out her phone.

**I think we're done for now. Open the door. -A**

She stands to leave without a word.

"Do come again," Moriarty chimes, just before she reaches the door.

"Maybe tomorrow," she agrees, as the cell door opens.

Mycroft is waiting on the other side to hear of her progress. There is not much to tell. She tells him simply that Moriarty is talking, but has not saying anything useful. At least, not yet.

* * *

Two days later, Anthea returns. The cameras are once again disabled, the mirror covered, and Moriarty and Anthea are left alone.

"You're late," Moriarty jokingly accuses.

"I brought you something," Anthea responds, drawing a package of gum from her pocket. She removes one of the white, rectangular pieces from the plastic casing. Bribing the prisoner with gum can't hurt. Especially if it works.

Moriarty practically beams. Anthea approaches him, and he opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue. As she places the gum in his mouth, she seems neither repulsed nor pleased.

"We have twenty minutes," she says in her most professional tone as she sits, "So, how are you today, Mr Moriarty?"

"Please, call me Jim," he encourages.

"That's a bit intimate, isn't it?" Anthea narrows her eyes slightly.

"Isn't this entire arrangement?" Moriarty shrugs as he rolls his head, effectively gesturing to the entirety of the small space, "You, me, a locked room... no eyes or ears save yours and mine. I know a few people who would be willing to kill for this sort of arrangement."

"Would you care to name them?" Anthea is beginning to feel bolder about this game they're playing the longer Moriarty speaks.

He chuckles, "Surely you don't think I'll crack that  _easily_."

Now it's Anthea's turn to shrug, "No. But it was worth trying. There must be something though. Something that you want, or are willing to exchange for information."

"And if there's not? You can keep me forever, but what's the  _point_? I sit here, the taxpayers pay for me to rot, and you get nothing. Everyone loses. Wouldn't that be a shame?" he doesn't look the least bit remorseful. In fact, he looks pleased by the prospect.

"I'm sure there are more persuasive measures that haven't been used yet," Anthea offers. It's unclear if the comment is a warning or a threat.

"There always are," he smirks, "People can be  _so_  creative with that sort of thing. But your boss is quite angry with me right now. I never seem respond quite the way he expects. If he's mad and hasn't resorted to more  _persuasive_  measures by now, he has his reasons. I wouldn't want to _interfere_."

"Is there a particular reason you're not revealing any information?" Anthea already knows the answer, but she asks anyway.

"There's always a plan. I never leave home without one."

"Care to enlighten me?" she dares.

"Oh  _dear_ , if I did, that would ruin all the fun. You'll just have to wait and see," his tongue darts out of his mouth and across his bottom lip, culminating in a knowing smile.

Anthea continues, "But there must be information you're willing to exchange. If there weren't, you wouldn't bother talking to me."

"As a matter of fact, there  _is_  some information I'm willing to share. At a price, of course."

Anthea's eyes twinkle with the slightest hints of intrigue and victory. She knows that she is succeeding where so many others have failed. As used as she is to a lack of emotion, the ability to crack Moriarty, even a bit, is almost intoxicating. Especially where the rest of the _entire government_  has failed. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have some information that will be very valuable to your employer. Information that could make or break his political career. I won't give him the key code, of course, but that's not all I have to offer. All I ask in return, is a  _little_  information about your boss's brother. Nothing he would feel uncomfortable divulging, just some trivia. Where he went to school, whether or not he had any friends, childhood hobbies..."

"Why?" Anthea inquires, legitimately intrigued. She's not feigning disinterest any more, as there seems to be no point. Her interest actually seems to be getting Moriarty to open up, if anything.

"Because Sherlock is  _interesting_ ," Moriarty says, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world.

Anthea smiles knowingly, "I suppose he is." She has read Sherlock's file, and Mycroft talks constantly about the situations his younger brother gets himself into.

"Everyone else is so  _boring_. I don't mind it here actually. The people are less stupid than average, but the hourly beatings were becoming entirely too  _predictable_. I was afraid your lot were going to turn out to be just as boring as the rest after all. But then they sent you. That is  _very_ interesting."

Anthea isn't entirely sure how the conversation had come to be about her, but she is slightly flattered by the recognition, "Is that so?"

"A thug's creativity ends with his access to tools and brute force. I know the type," a small, wry smile, "You, on the other hand... you know how to properly talk. There's a brain in there too. Maybe not a magnificent one, but you have potential."

Anthea can't believe that she's almost blushing. It's such a backhanded compliment, and yet, usually she is considered nothing more than a pretty face, a note taker, or a chaperone. She takes orders on a regular basis for a living. It's nice to know that someone thinks she has potential. Even if Moriarty is a criminal, he is also quite intelligent, so his opinion counts for  _something_.

"Thank you," she smiles, but with consciously suppressed warmth. Moriarty practically beams with satisfaction, chewing his gum with an open mouth.

"Are you going to tell Mycroft?" he inquires.

"Tell him what?"

"My demands."

"Of course," Anthea reaches absently for her phone, checking the time, and considers sending Mycroft a text.

Moriarty continues chewing the gum, "What about everything else?"

She shrugs, "Everything important. I don't need to repeat every word."

"Probably for the best."

"Why?" She inquires, vaguely concerned. It is entirely possible that Moriarty is capable of having Mycroft killed or otherwise inconvenienced.

"We wouldn't want him getting jealous."

Anthea laughs slightly, "Jealous of you? Mycroft doesn't do jealousy."

"No?"

"There's nothing to be jealous of," she adds. "Mycroft Holmes doesn't own me."

" _No..._  no he doesn't," Moriarty shoots Anthea an appraising glance. "You wouldn't let him. You work for him, but you're...  _independent_."

"I suppose. I could take a different job if I wanted." Suddenly aware that the conversation has turned back to her, Anthea attempts to redirect focus. "I'll tell Mycroft your demands, and then he will decide what he is willing to divulge."

"Simple enough," Moriarty agrees, "but once you tell him  _that_ , he'll stop letting you in to see me. I still have a few more...  _secrets_  that I would like to get off my chest in your company. But we're almost done for the day, and there simply isn't  _time_." He tilts his head and rolls his eyes for emphasis.

"You could start now, and we can pick up tomorrow where we left off..."

"No, no, no. That won't  _do_ ," the look in his eyes is intense and somewhat alarming, but it vanishes quickly, "I have another demand before I tell you anything else," his voice had suddenly become syrupy sweet.

"Something from me," Anthea concludes.

Moriarty nods solemnly, but with a saccharine smile, "I have quite a story to tell. But, you see, I've been stuck in this chair for two weeks now. Pacing helps me to think... To keep my thoughts straight. If I could only get up..." he gestures to the ceiling with both his eyes and his head.

"I don't think that will be possible. I doubt Mycroft will surrender the keys."

"Anthea, Anthea,  _Anthea_..." The disappointment in his tone obvious, and the repetition of her name sends subtle, but cold chills down her spine. Even despite the fact that the name was a fake one, "I thought you were  _independent_. Come now, what's the harm? The door can't open from the inside, so there's no danger of me  _escaping_... You can keep your phone and lock me back up before you leave. You have to admit, this is a little inhumane," he raises his arms as far as he is able with the handcuffs.

"I'll see what I can do."

"How very kind. Thank you." Moriarty nods, sounding legitimately grateful.

"No problem," Anthea says with indifference.

Moriarty watches Anthea pull out her phone and send a text. As the door opens seconds later to allow her exit, he swallows the gum, looking like a cat who has caught the canary.

* * *

"Half an hour this time, but I didn't get the key," Anthea sounds somewhat disappointed, but Moriarty seems indifferent. It has been two days since her last visit.

"No rush," he smiles, launching into a clearly pre-prepared dialogue, "You're so under-appreciated, aren't you? Sitting in empty cars and rooms full of government clowns every day. How tedious," he drones. "How  _do_  you manage?"

"Small acts of rebellion," she smiles, lifting a small set of keys out of her shirt.

"Oh, aren't you  _clever_ ," his face a transforming from a smirk to a Cheshire grin. "You fooled me. You  _really_  did." Moriarty is laughing now, "You are so full of  _surprises_."

"Like I said, that's sort of my speciality," she says, unlocking the left handcuff first, then the right.

"Legs are still tied," Moriarty observes.

"You have your hands free now. I thought you could use the exercise," Anthea shrugs. "I'm not stupid, I recognise a vulnerable position when I see one."

If Anthea had been wearing a wire, Moriarty's laughter would have brought the entire facility running in by now.

"Funny, am I?" she inquires.

Moriarty stands, having untied the knots from his ankles between his fits of laughter. He brushes his hands over the grey fabric of the track pants he has been wearing, and brushes out the shoulders of the white shirt, stained with blood and remnants of food. Anthea can't help but stare. Despite having been tied up for so long, Moriarty's movements are all smooth and coordinated. Mechanical and planned, but also strangely reptilian. It wouldn't be terribly surprising to find that the man were cold-blooded, given what his in his file. Nothing concrete, but it appears his hand has been behind at  _least_  fifteen murders and scores of disappearances. Nothing that anyone can prove, however.

" _Hilarious_ ," Moriarty remarks, taking a step toward Mycroft's assistant.

Anthea's first reaction is to step backwards, to keep the same amount of distance between them, but she overrides the impulse. Moriarty hasn't stopped smiling, and he looks predatory. Like a lion licking his lips before ripping open the throat of a gazelle. As a matter of fact, he is licking his lips  _exactly_  like that.

"I thought you had a story you wanted to tell me," Anthea asserts.

"Yes... of course," Moriarty stops approaching, and begins to walk circles around his chair, keeping one hand on the back. "But you know, I could have told you sitting down."

"Would you have?"

Moriarty raises his right shoulder and tilts his head to meet it, "Perhaps. Hard to say, really. But this... this is a  _risk_. I'm sure I don't have to inform you that you're liable for whatever happens now."

"I have my phone, but I'm not going to need it," Anthea is confident, and rightfully so. Injuring her would only prove a detriment to Moriarty, rather than creating an advantage. He is more than content to experience a bit of freedom of mind and body for the time being.

"What does my file say? What would you like to know?"

"It says you're a megalomaniac," Anthea begins, realising that she has been circling Moriarty, orbiting his orbit, centred around his chair. The prey circling the predator, "but I don't think so."

Moriarty is obviously pleased, "And why not?"

"Megalomaniacs have delusional fantasies of power, and self-importance," she elaborates, "I don't think you're delusional. You're fully capable of whatever you say you can do. Your associates are everywhere, and the government is unable to trace them."

Moriarty quirks an eyebrow, as he notices that Anthea has not used the collective. "The government," rather than "we."

"You're just as powerful as you think you are, and I don't think you aspire to be more, unless it's to outwit Sherlock Holmes. You're a consulting criminal. You love solving puzzles, and, just as often, creating them."

"How flattering," he seems legitimately pleased and sufficiently impressed. "World domination does seem a bit much... but I'd be willing to give it a go." He runs his right hand over the back and sides of his chair as he circles, leaving his left hand free to gesture to the other, "Why don't you take a seat?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Anthea insists. Moriarty stops to face her.

"You are, aren't you?" It isn't really a question. It isn't the same definition of "fine" either. Anthea stops moving altogether and blushes.

Moriarty takes a step toward her, and again, she defies her impulse to recoil. The predator is back, but she holds her ground, hoping that will be enough to assert her lack of subservience.

"Mr Moriarty, I think  _you_  should sit down," she suggests, the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice.

"Jim. My name is Jim," he smiles, only about two feet away now, "or James, if you'd prefer. But you can't honestly think that I would want to sit back down in that chair until absolutely necessary."

"I suppose not," she swallows carefully. Moriarty takes another step forward, now close enough that she can feel his warm breath on her face. Not cold-blooded after all. Not physically, at least.

Moriarty reaches out, and grabs Anthea's right wrist with his left hand. She does not protest, but inhales softly, and makes a small jerking motion, as if half-heartedly expecting to free her wrist. While it occurs to her that she won't be able to reach her mobile to call for help or send a text, she remembers that Moriarty has little reason do do her any harm. That thought keeps her calm – not that she was ever prone to panic.

Moriarty's gaze shifts suddenly, appraising again. His eyes squinting slightly, and scanning Anthea's face. Anthea isn't sure if he is calculating, contemplating, or just plain crazy. He opens his eyes fully, but continues raking his eyes over Anthea's face, her long, dark hair. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem overtly malicious.

And before long, it isn't just Moriarty's eyes. His right hand is on her face, stroking her cheek, threading lightly through her hair. It isn't romantic or loving by any means, nor is it predatory – but it is definitely intimate. Intimate in a remote, almost absent sort of way, which sends slight tremors down Anthea's spine. Not shivers. It's not hot, nor is it cold. Room-temperature. Luke-warm.

There is warmth coming from Moriarty's hand, and the air from his lungs is warmed, but Anthea's distinct impression is that it feels as if it might as easily be her own hand on her face. Nonchalant, but deliberate. She has almost forgotten her right wrist is trapped in his grip.

Moriarty cups her face in his right hand, tilts her head up, and leans in, millimetres from her lips. He chuckles with self-satisfaction. The look on Anthea's face now could be described most accurately as a challenge. She is unwilling to fight, flail, or back down. That would put her at a distinct disadvantage in their delicate power dynamic. If she allows it, there won't be a winner. At any rate, she is curious to see if he is actually going to kiss her. Whether or not he has the nerve, and whether he possesses the power he thinks he has. He does.

Their eyes close. Neutral. Physically, but not emotionally warm. That is, until Moriarty takes one more step forward, pushing Anthea against the cold wall if the small cell. He lets go of her wrist and presses his left hand to the wall, just to the right of Anthea's head. She could push him away if she wanted to. But she doesn't.

She does, however, open her mouth slightly in surprise, which Moriarty interprets as a victory and an invitation, sliding into her mouth, brushing his tongue along her lower lip. She reciprocates. And suddenly, Anthea thinks she knows what it feels like to be pressed against the wall by the devil himself. She doesn't believe in gods or devils, strictly speaking, but Moriarty is probably the earthly equivalent of the latter, if not both. Warm, and getting warmer.

She can feel her air of neutrality quickly slipping away, as she places her newly freed hand on Moriarty's lower back. She can feel him smile against her lips, and she smiles back defiantly. There still isn't a winner. She turns her head to the left, opening her eyes and breaking the kiss. She had expected Moriarty to back away, but she should have known that his desire to win went deeper than that. He would not be satisfied with an equal power dynamic. Rather than retreat, he begins to kiss her earlobe, teasing it with his tongue, and moving slowly down her neck, kissing and sucking gently, but intensifying to the point where his mouth could easily leave bruises. Anthea feels her heart rate increase, and her knees start to buckle. She hopes that she is pressed firmly enough against the wall that Moriarty won't notice, but he does. And as he pulls himself away, Anthea stifles a slight whine, refusing to give Moriarty further gratification. His self-satisfied grin is a loss enough.

Anthea straightens her blouse, and throws her hair in front of her neck to hide the bruises which will soon start forming. As she reaches into her pocket, Moriarty returns silently to his chair, tying himself to the legs, and closing one handcuff. Anthea leans over him to close the other, and presses "Send" on her phone.

When the door opens, James Moriarty is still smiling.

* * *

Anthea marches in the next day as confident as ever, the bruises on her neck expertly concealed. Hiding things from her employer is no simple task. It helps that he hardly ever notices her.

"Not scared off, I see," Moriarty says with chilling smoothness.

Anthea smiles, "Surely you don't think I'll crack that  _easily_."

"You have quite a good memory," he notes her use of his exact words on their second day, precise down to his emphasis.

"Naturally," she walks to her seat, but doesn't sit, leaning on it with her right arm. "So, how shall we handle today?" The question is rhetorical. "It would seem I can't trust you, and you won't talk unless I do."

"You haven't told Mycroft my terms yet then," Moriarty deduces, quite correctly.

"Perhaps tonight, depending on how this afternoon goes," the way she says it is almost a threat.

"You could start by removing these handcuffs," he offers.

"I could..." Anthea steps forward, drawing the keys out of the front of her shirt. She pauses for a moment just in front of Moriarty, leaning down a bit for just a hint of condescension. "Oops," she smiles, as she tosses the keys across the room.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Moriarty demands, anger suddenly fuelling his gaze. It is the first time Anthea has seen him legitimately angry. By all rights, she should be terrified, given what she knows him to be capable of, but she remains unmoved. While Moriarty is restrained, she has the upper hand, and she knows it.

"Because I don't always do exactly as I'm told," she says, unflinchingly.

Anthea raises her hand, and strikes Moriarty across the face. As his face begins to redden, she raises her hand again, only to discover that Moriarty is  _smiling_. Such reaction was not entirely a surprise, but it suddenly dawns on her that this is all a game. It always has been, and remains, a dangerous game. It has never been about the key code. Not for Moriarty, at least. Nor has it been about Mycroft, or the government, or a criminal network. No... these conversations had been all about infiltration. Espionage. Subterfuge. And it's working.

Anthea has never been particularly loyal to the government, or to Mycroft. She has a job, but it is  _merely_  a job. She has the necessary skills, no criminal record, and so they pay for her house, her bills, and her unlimited texting. They drive her around, and use her to escort people back to her superiors, and that is it. That is where her duties end. But this... this is much more exciting. It is intellectually engaging, and along with it come responsibilities. Smuggling in the handcuff keys had been easy. She couldn't unleash Moriarty on the unsuspecting public, but she could expedite the process if she wanted. She could see to it that Mycroft provided the details that Moriarty required as payment for his information. But before that, she could also allow herself a bit of fun.

"Tell me, James," she sighs in his ear, leaning further forward as she uses his first name for the first time, "Do you still want me to take off the handcuffs?"

Before he can reply, she strikes his face again, and his smile only widens.

"No wonder you put up with interrogation for weeks," her voice is breathy and barely above a whisper. "You like it."

She straddles Moriarty and slowly lowers herself into his lap. A low hiss escapes his lips, and she looks him square in the eyes. This is a victory, for both of them, and Moriarty knows it.

He smirks, "You would kill for me if I asked."

Anthea shrugs, legitimately indifferent, "Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't. But you're not in much of a position to be asking for favours."

The criminal mastermind's face lights up as he laughs. "You're quite right. I am _absolutely_  going to enjoy this."

Anthea takes Moriarty's face in both hands, and kisses him roughly, feeling the blood rush to his face, and biting at his bottom lip until she can taste the metallic warmth of his blood on her tongue. Eagerly delving her tongue into his mouth, only to have him bite her back, just hard enough to break the skin.

"Fuck," she murmurs as she pulls her mouth away, her voice heavy with arousal, and a drop of blood gathered at the corner of her lips. She looks reproachfully at him. In response, Moriarty makes a humming sound deep in his throat, that vibrates throughout his entire body and Anthea sighs. She slides her hands underneath his shirt, up Moriarty's sides, and across his chest. She presses her nose into his neck, and she can smell the blood and sweat from all the times he has been beaten throughout his captivity. She grazes the nape of his neck with her teeth, causing Moriarty to hiss again and buck his hips ever so slightly beneath her. She smiles against the sensitive skin, and sucks hard enough to make a few bruises of her own on his neck. No one else will notice or question a few more cuts and bruises, so she can mark him however she likes.

"James Moriarty," she whispers in his ear, "You. Are. Mine," she punctuates every word with another small bite of his neck.

His hips jerk again, and his breath catches every time. The snarl he makes is half desire, and half contempt, "You don't own me."

Anthea calls his bluff, feeling his erection against her inner thigh, "I think you'll find that I do." She kisses and bites her way down his neck again, then sticks her thumbs into his track pants, standing enough to pull them to his knees, then to his ankles. She draws her right thigh slowly between his legs, locking her eyes with his, "I  _own_  you."

Both lick their lips simultaneously with anticipation as Anthea kneels between Moriarty's legs. She glances up and sees no apprehension in his eyes. His gaze is stone cold until she takes him into her mouth. He blinks rapidly, takes a deep breath and exhales heavily through his open mouth, while Anthea begins to bob her head with agonising slowness, sucking, and rolling her tongue around his hardening shaft. Moriarty attempts to thrust into her mouth, his body betraying his desperation, but his movement is limited by his restraints. Anthea laughs, the vibrations of which cause Moriarty to let out a poorly suppressed groan.

She continues slowly for a time, running her hands up and down Moriarty's legs, relishing the fact that she can make him tremble by brushing her fingers lightly over his inner thighs. Moriarty is becoming visibly and vocally impatient. He breathes in huffs and deep sighs, occasionally licking his lips, and the handcuffs are digging further into his wrists as he grasps the seat of the chair with white knuckles. Eventually, Anthea increases her pace, taking him further into her mouth with each stroke. Moriarty's breath becomes short and ragged, and he throws his head back, eyes wide open. He strains harder against the handcuffs, creating cuts on both wrists in his desperate desire to lock his hands in Anthea's hair and push her head further. "Fuck," he gasps.

Anthea smiles as far as she is able and deliberately slows her pace again. Moriarty shoots her a caustic glance, his eyes deep and reproachful. But she has control, and he has no choice but to wait until she is ready. Just as Moriarty opens his mouth to berate her, Anthea grasps his hips firmly and slides her mouth down his entire length in one solid, fluid motion, contracting the muscles in her throat. Whatever Moriarty's criticisms were going to be, they become nothing more than a strangled moan. His legs tighten around Anthea's head, encouraging her further. His breath is loud and heavy, but he has to wait, albeit impatiently, until she decides to take him as deep and fast possible, all spit, tongue, suction, and the warm tightness of her throat. When Moriarty finally comes, his entire body shudders, and when he exhales through his open mouth, his breath is shaky and uneven.

Anthea smiles with the utmost satisfaction as she removes her mouth, and catches Moriarty's chin with her hand and presses her lips against his, reclaiming them, tasting his blood, sweat, and cum.

"You're welcome," she remarks forcefully, as if she has done him a favour.

Moriarty simply smirks in return.

Anthea stands, casually checking the time on her mobile as if nothing has happened, "There never was any story that you wanted to tell me, was there?" she asks, disinterested in the answer.

"I would have come up with something," he lies poorly, and his skin is shining with sweat.

"No, you wouldn't," she sighs, pulling his track pants back up to his hips.

"You're right," he smirks again, "But there  _is_  something I can tell you now."

"What's that?" she asks.

"There is no key," he smiles, confident that the information will never make it back to Mycroft.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for well... Moriarty being Moriarty, which in this case involves a bit of rather mild blood play. The next chapter should be more plot than this one is, but Moriarty tends to kidnap my muse and haul her to the darker side of fiction, so we'll see how that goes. Thanks to the few people who have left positive feedback on the first chapter. I wouldn't have continued writing this story if it weren't for you.

" _So_ good to see you again," Moriarty smiles as he opens the door to a dark, dreary flat. The windows are all closed, despite the fact that the air in the room is musty. All of them are either covered for privacy or opaque with grime. He casually chews a piece of gum and leans against the door frame, immaculate in his grey Abingdon suit.

" _Do_  come in."

Anthea nods calmly, "Jim."

He is visibly pleased by the fact that she no longer insists on addressing him as "Mr Moriarty," giving her as warm of a legitimate smile as he is probably capable. He motions to an armchair, and sinks himself into the dilapidated sofa facing her.

Anthea takes the seat indicated, looking Moirarty in the eye as she does so. She has been holding weekly meetings with him for the past month, ever since his release. Moriarty has consistently picked the location, times, and circumstances. She doesn't completely trust him for obvious reasons, but so far he has done nothing to indicate malicious intent. His interest is mostly in information, such as what the Holmes brothers are doing, or which of his underlings are being investigated and followed.

However, despite the fact that this is not an uncommon meeting in some respects, it remains so in others, and the feeling is not one Anthea can imagine getting over. Not many government employees hold secret meetings with consulting criminals. Fewer of them do so without having orders from their superiors, and Anthea is almost certainly the only one who regularly meets with Moriarty on her own accord, against the government's wishes. She's an easy path to information at the top of the chain for him, and were the government to know of her whereabouts, she would most likely be lucky to escape with the sort of treatment Moriarty had endured while in custody. But for better or worse, there's something magnetic about Moriarty, and Anthea couldn't stay away if she tried. Though, it is entirely possible she never had a say in the matter. If Moriarty wants to see someone, he can always find a way.

She glances around the flat, not for the first time noticing that it seems below Moriarty's standards. The wallpaper is peeling, the kitchen seems devoid of any food or appliances, and the furniture is old and battered. As a result, Anthea has the distinct impression that the flat isn't where Moriarty spends most of his time. Which would make sense, given that though Moriarty trusts her to a degree, it is not enough to reveal his last refuge. Most likely no one but Moriarty knows where that would be. This particular flat however, given the neighbourhood, is probably a good central location for his work, and is well hidden from prying eyes.

"He knows I arrived home, as usual."

"Mycroft?" Moriarty glances at her absently, then out one of the dirt encrusted windows, "I suppose it  _would_  put a damper on my plans if he figured out where we are. He's not a complete idiot. I'm sure he would assume you had been kidnapped." He smiles mockingly, "How  _darling_. But it wouldn't take him long to track you if he went looking. I'm surprised he hasn't put cameras in your flat."

"Oh, he has," Anthea explains with a half-grimace, "but I know where they are, and they're easy enough to avoid. I assume he has some idea that a degree of privacy is appreciated by the people he keeps tabs on. As far as he knows, I'm in my bedroom and haven't come out. At any rate, I doubt he has enough time to watch all the footage he accrues."

Moriarty chuckles, "He does bite off more than he can chew sometimes. He likes to know everything." Changing the subject, he adds, "I'll come up with a more permanent plan for us soon. I have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. These arrangements take time, since there's the added problem of having to fool a man with all the CCTV footage, and various other government resources at his disposal. Don't worry yourself about that."

It is clear from Anthea's expression that she has absolutely no plans to worry about anything. Even if she had harboured doubts, Moriarty clearly knows what he's doing.

"His car took you home."

She nods, even though it wasn't a question. "Then I changed clothes, and got into the car you sent for me, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary," she explains.

"Do you like the disguise?" He gestures to her new outfit, which he had arranged to be purchased for the sake of avoiding Mycroft's scrutinising eyes. A nondescript pair of blue jeans, t-shirt, Converse shoes (which were left at the door), and a black jacket with a hood. Reasonably common clothing, but different enough from Anthea's usual attire that she would not be easily or immediately identified. Unfortunately, if Mycroft's suspicions were aroused, Moriarty's precautions wouldn't fool him for long. Arranging crimes in back rooms and penthouses was one thing - stealing a government employee from directly under Mycroft's nose was more of a challenge. Especially with both of them being at least periodically monitored.

Mycroft doesn't know where Moriarty is most of the time, but there are people constantly on the lookout for him. One detectable misstep, and he would be brought directly back into custody. Thankfully for Moriarty, he is not in the habit of making mistakes, and if he gets caught, it is always because he wants to. Moriarty has avoided the law for long enough that he knows every loophole, and as such he can easily slip through the cracks unnoticed. In the end, Mycroft Holmes isn't much of a deterrent – merely an annoyance.

"I admit, it's considerably more comfortable than what I usually wear," Anthea concedes.

"Good!" Moriarty beams. "All set then. And we've got the whole evening to ourselves. What a  _pleasant_  turn of events..." he looks as if his mind is wandering, head listing to one side, then the other, but he composes himself. "We can worry about nailing down a more concrete schedule later. For now, why don't you start by telling me what your  _dear_ boss and his brother have been up to?"

Anthea pulls up the brief notes she has typed out on her mobile and scrolls through them. "Not much has been happening lately. Sherlock has solved a few cases... One involving a missing family fortune, and another where a woman was being blackmailed by her former lover and employer," she looks up at Moriarty expectantly.

"Nothing to do with me. What a  _shame_..." he shrugs. "Go on."

"They're still looking for information on you, of course, and anyone who works for you. But it's hard to prove ties, and they're having about as much luck as usual. Less, in fact," she looks at Moriarty pointedly.

As Moriarty laughs, he rolls his gum around his mouth with his tongue, "Were they getting close, or did you just throw them off for fun?" He leans back on the sofa, his arms folded casually behind his head and stretching out his legs. He could easily be seen as the master of the manor, impeccably dressed as he was, were it not for the fact that the flat is practically worthless, and the sofa itself is mottled with stains of almost every colour imaginable. The combined effect somewhat ruins the impression of power and affluence he might have otherwise exuded. It strikes Anthea as presumptuous that he wears a suit around his own flat, but he doesn't seem to actually live there, and this is a meeting of business.

"Not too close. They'll know soon enough about the people you've arranged to move to Baker Street, but that can't be helped. I can probably keep Mycroft in the dark until they move in, but once they're there, I'm sure he will do background checks. He always does on anyone new to the neighbourhood, just to be sure."

"So  _nosy_ ," he makes a sound of disapproval. "Sherlock is  _perfectly_  capable of looking after himself. Mycroft just likes to make things so difficult. But I suppose it would be no fun if everything were _easy_." He picks up a pen from the table in front of him, twirling it absently with his fingers.

"There's not much I can do about Victor Lynch. The case against him is more or less airtight, and it would just raise suspicion if I tried to cover up the mess he made." Moriarty shrugs, as if he doesn't care one way or another that one of his best forgers is in custody. "Other than that, I made sure that the name in Catherine Brown's file was spelled with a K, rather than a C. They'll go through all the matches before they realise the mistake, and have to start over. An innocuous enough mistake, I think."

Moriarty looks interested again, and smiles almost imperceptibly, "I would hate to lose  _her_. She's so good at her job."

"What does she do?" Anthea inquires. Moriarty has given her a list of names to look out for, but hasn't given her many specific details about the individuals.

"Just a prostitute," he shrugs, but stops twirling the pen in his hand in favour of examining Anthea's reaction.

Anthea's eyes flash wide in surprise, and there is a moment of stunned silence. Whatever answer she had been expecting, that was not it.

"Oh," Moriarty is childishly excited, "Is that  _jealousy_?"

Anthea shakes her head, but Moriarty can see that she has begun to blush slightly.

He can't help but laugh wildly at her shocked expression. Even though she covers it reasonably well, the reaction is even better than he had hoped for. "You are  _precious,_ " he chews his gum with a smile. "Miss Brown keeps track of a lot of important people for me. She learns quite a lot about her clientèle, which includes some very  _influential_  individuals. Conveniently, she provides blackmail at the same time." He pauses briefly before adding, "I don't personally benefit from her...  _services_."

"Well, that's good to know," Anthea smiles mildly, having completely regained her composure.

"After the fiasco with Irene Adler, I learned that sex and crime don't always mix." Moriarty wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant thought, "She nearly blew my entire plan. And not in a good way," he smirks at his own pun, looking Anthea directly in the eye, forcing the blood to return to her face briefly. "She let her emotions get in the way. Thankfully, it would seem you're not prone to quite the same weaknesses."

"Did you sleep with Irene?" Anthea manages to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

"No," Moriarty shakes his head at angles, "not my type."

Anthea smiles slightly, despite the fact that she knows no one is Moriarty's "type." Sherlock is an intellectual equal and rival, but he seemingly has no interest in sex. Even more importantly, Moriarty isn't capable of romance, and she knows it. The thought of Moriarty in a fine restaurant trying to woo someone is entirely laughable. James Moriarty will never be the romancing or marrying sort, and that suits him perfectly.

"So, what is your  _type_  then?"

He smirks at Anthea and chews his gum as he speaks. "Clever," he muses, "That's the most important. You know I have no patience for stupid or dull. Well above average at least... Independent, but with the ability to both give  _and_  take orders..." his smile is briefly wicked, "I need someone who can command others and problem solve on their own, but won't argue with  _me,_ " he points to himself with his entire hand for emphasis. "That was Irene's problem. She always wanted to do things her way. A bit too _fiery_ , if you ask me. Which in her day job was fine, but we had some... _disagreements_  about how she should approach Sherlock. You know how that ended – months of work and information in your employer's hands." It has been some time, and everything righted itself in the end, but flashes of anger cross Moriarty's eyes.

"Anything else?" Anthea inquires, in an attempt to get his thoughts back onto a more pleasant subject and diffuse tension. His anger is visibly rising, and while she has thus far avoided his wrath, she would rather like to keep it that way. She walks a fine enough line as it is.

Thankfully for her, Moriarty's moods are mercurial, and he either shakes off or hides the anger easily, "And, usually, I'm reluctant to mix business and pleasure. But there _are_  a few notable exceptions," he blinks twice so intentionally that it's obviously for show.

"Notable how?" Anthea inquires.

"Do you know how hard it is to make a good first impression?" It's not an answer, but Anthea plays along.

"Doesn't everyone?"

He rolls his eyes, "Not in general. I couldn't care less what  _ordinary_  people think. I mean to make a good impression on  _me_."

Anthea is sure he remembers the impression she made the day they met, "I have some idea."

"You do, don't you?" He smirks, "That was very clever. It really was."

"Thank you," Anthea responds, checking the time on her mobile to keep from grinning.

"It's hard enough to make a good first impression. I have high standards, and for good reason. It gets the job done. Except in those _teensy_  areas where it's so hard to find another compatible human being." He pauses briefly, "You see the problem."

"I suppose," she tries her best to sound indifferent. "But I don't see how that's relevant to what you've asked  _me_  to do."

"Oh, it has  _everything_  to do with what I've asked from you," Moriarty smiles.

"Look," Anthea decides to ignore the steadily growing grin on Moriarty's face, "I've given you all the information I have for now. Is there anything else you need from me today?"

It's not intended to be a loaded question, but before she has a chance to rephrase, Moriarty clears the distance between them, and leans heavily on the arms of Anthea's chair, effectively trapping her.

"Yes, there is," the wording is heavy-handed, but effective. Anthea can feel her face flush and her skin warm. He practically giggles at her altogether too obvious reaction, "Looks like the tables have turned, haven't they?" There is the predatory look in his eyes that Anthea remembers well.

Anthea rolls her eyes pointedly, "Get on with it then." It's not a rejection or an objection, it's simply the best she can do to sound disinterested when her body language is failing miserably at feigning apathy.

The look on Moriarty's face is unmistakably a mix of glee and self-satisfaction, "Whatever you say." And he smiles because they both know that's a lie.

His hungry, demanding lips force so hard against Anthea's that her head indents the upholstery, and her breath catches in her chest as Moriarty swallows his gum and attempts to claim her mouth with violent passion.

For Anthea, this is so much more interesting than sitting in an office with Mycroft, following orders, filing paperwork. This is  _dangerous_. Dangerous and fascinating and out of control, and therein lies the thrill. It's the rebellion and the constant power struggle, the dynamic play of dominance and submission, and the sheer performance of it. Walking a fine line between her relatively safe day job, and a maniac who could have her killed or worse on a moment's notice.

For Moriarty, it's an indulgence, and certainly a distraction from the ennui that constantly threatens to consume him the longer he secludes himself, plotting, hiding from Sherlock and the government. It's a productive exchange of information, practical, and a satisfying show of wit. It's a way to keep Anthea willingly ensnared and to encourage her complacency. It's a carnal display of dominance and power and greed.

Anthea kisses back, establishing a hold on Moriarty's hair with one hand, and a hold on his neck with the other. She draws her fingernails lightly over his shoulder, making Moriarty draw up his shoulders and his head to jerk at the sensation, causing their mouths to break contact.

Moriarty sighs, but he sounds both exasperated and pleased, "Let's move somewhere a bit more comfortable, shall we?" He stands back, and cracks his neck while looking down at Anthea.

"Fine," she does her best to sound disinterested, despite her rapidly increasing heart rate and the tightening knot in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on then," he nods his head to the right, towards a closed door that could only lead to the bedroom. He starts walking without waiting for a response or confirmation. Anthea takes a steadying breath and follows.

As Moriarty reaches for the door handle however, an idea occurs to Anthea, as she wonders what exactly she can get away with. She grabs his tie, pulling it out of his jacket, which causes him to half turn toward her and pause. He looks amused and pleasantly surprised. "Why do you always wear a suit around your own flat?"

"Because I can," he smiles wryly.

"Because it makes you feel  _important._ " Anthea asserts, "I'm sure you don't wear it when you're alone, you arrogant prick. It's because you think you're better than everyone else."

Moriarty simply smiles innocently and shrugs at the insult, "I am."

"Maybe you are, but I don't care. You don't have to convince me of your superior attitude. Take it off," she insists.

Moriarty laughs at being ordered, pulling his eyebrows together, "Or what?"

She grabs the tie more tightly with her fist and pulls, forcing Moriarty to jerk forward, bringing their faces closer together. It's well worth the brief look of surprise on his face before he transforms it into a wide, gleeful grin.

"I could leave, if you'd rather," she suggests. It's more or less a bluff and an empty threat, because leaving was never her intention. To go now would be a form of giving up, and the game is already in play. Moriarty might not even allow her to leave. He was in charge of her transportation after all.

However, he complies without resentment. He begins with his tie, which has become rather tight around his neck, then unbuttoning and shrugging out of the jacket, which he tosses aside.

"Better?" he sounds exasperated, though he looks more or less pleased.

"A bit," Anthea smiles slightly, and Moriarty smirks back. She reaches past him and pushes the door open.

She is surprised by the fact that, while the room as a whole is unattractive, and most of the furniture worn, the bed itself is extravagant, especially by comparison. A snow white down comforter and pillows only intensify her poor impression of the rest of the derelict room.

The moment she pauses to take in her surroundings is sufficient for Moriarty to grab her shoulders and force her onto the bed she had been admiring. "Comfortable?" he asks rhetorically, still gripping and pinning her arms. Anthea has never seen him look this predatory and self-satisfied.

Slightly stunned, she attempts to shrug, but her movement is limited enough that she settles for a sigh instead. The sigh, however, comes out more aroused than apathetic.

"Good," Moriarty smirks, moving close enough that Anthea, even with her shoulders pinned, can reach his shirt buttons. She starts to slowly unbutton them. His breath plays across her face as he examines her. "So glad we're  _settled._ "

Once all the shirt buttons are undone, she reaches for his trousers, but Moriarty easily slides his grip from her shoulders to her wrists. "Not so fast," he tsks, "Let's not be too  _eager_."

Anthea rolls her eyes, "And why not?"

"This is our  _play time_ ," he smiles, his face so close to hers that everything is out of focus except his eyes. "Our little game. We've only just started, and I would  _hate_  to be done too soon. Let's take a moment to appreciate what's happening here," he tightens his grip on her wrists and laughs dangerously. It's a deep laugh that makes his whole body vibrate.

"And what exactly is that?"

"Oh, you'll figure it out soon enough," he grins, "but that's not important. Loosen up a little!" He insists, "You're so  _tense_."

Anthea reluctantly relaxes her arms and lies perfectly still, her eyes skating over his features, trying to anticipate Moriarty's next move.

"Excellent," he croons, letting go of her wrists as he divests himself of his loose shirt and pulls Anthea's jacket over her shoulders. She sits up to allow the jacket to be removed entirely, but pulls the t-shirt over her head on her own before Moriarty can prevent it or object. He reaches behind Anthea, and places his hand on her lower back, slowly walking his fingers up and down her spine. Anthea looks into his calm eyes as hands move back and forth between her waistband and her bra, without ever quite touching either. She shivers impatiently before he finally unclasps her bra, which she shrugs off effortlessly.

Moriarty leans forward, and hesitates a moment, hovering millimetres away with a look of defiance before pressing their bare chests together. His body is warm, and this is more intimate than Anthea would have imagined. While she is distracted, Moriarty is grasping her wrists again and pinning them above her head with his right hand. He brings their mouths crashing together, his tongue insistently pressing against her bottom lip. Anthea hums softly before opening her mouth further to nip at his bottom lip with her teeth. Moriarty runs his free hand over her sides and hips, occasionally dipping his thumb below the waistband with slow, frustratingly languid strokes of his hand.

Anthea unwittingly whines in frustration as she attempts to move her arms, which only encourages Moriarty to strengthen his grip and push himself closer, rolling his hips into her, causing both of them to moan into each other's mouths. Moriarty sounds positively reckless.

He pulls back, looking into Anthea's eyes, which are rapidly becoming more and more desperate, despite her attempts to hide it.

He moves his mouth to her neck, biting and sucking so hard that she can feel the bruises forming almost immediately. He even draws a bit of blood at her shoulder, licking the blood from the wound and his lips. Anthea wriggles slightly, exhaling deeply, but making no other sound.

Frustrated by her lack of response, Moriarty grabs her hip tightly with his free hand and places small bites down her collarbone, trailing towards her right breast. As his teeth graze her nipple, she gasps involuntarily. She can feel his lips curl upward around the soft flesh as he bites down harder. Anthea bites her own lip to keep from crying out, but that does little to stifle the obscene, wordless moan that escapes despite her best efforts. Moriarty continues by sucking and running his tongue over the sensitive tissue so softly it's almost affectionate.

After a few seconds, he removes his mouth, leaving the exposed skin wet and cold, and repeating the process with her other breast. Anthea's entire body shudders as she arches her back to bring her body closer to his. She is biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, but doesn't dare release it.

Moriarty looks back at her face again, and she relaxes the grip on her lip involuntarily as his dark eyes bore into hers. Noticing the blood which has started to pool in the indents of her teeth, Moriarty leans closer, and reprimands her under his breath. " _Care_ ful..." he mutters, before snaking his tongue out to lap the crimson, metallic liquid. The sting makes Anthea wince slightly, and she exhales slowly in an attempt to regulate the vocalisations which threaten to expose her desperation.

Suddenly, he lets go of her wrists, and for a brief moment Anthea doesn't move. Then, realising and seizing the the opportunity, she reaches for Moriarty's belt, and this time he doesn't stop her. There is a visible bulge in the fabric of his trousers, which Anthea attempts to ignore by focusing on keeping her hands from trembling as she pulls the leather loose. Similarly, their arms intertwined, Moriarty reaches for the button on her jeans, and pulls them, along with her pants, down over her hips in one fluid motion.

As his trousers fall, Moriarty inhales deeply through his nose, keeping his eyes carefully locked on Anthea's, satisfied by her lack of surprise at his silk boxers.

"I should have known," she mutters, yanking them down as well, and pausing to let him step out of the tangle of fabric around his ankles.

Moriarty hisses as Anthea reaches up and grabs his arms, pulling him on top of her. The sudden pressure knocks the air out of her lungs, and as their bodies press together, Moriarty slyly slides a hand up her inner thigh.

"Oh..." she mutters with what little of her breath remains, as her hips involuntarily roll forward in an attempt to meet his hand, caring less and less about keeping what little remains of her dignified composure.

He chuckles, running his hand over her knees and halfway up her thigh.

"Jim," she murmurs, attempting to reposition her body closer to the hand that is drawing frustrating circles around the side of her kneecap, which is impossible with all his weight resting on top of her. She swears.

"James, please," she mutters, still attempting to hide the desperation in her voice, but knowing immediately that the words are submissive and damning enough on their own. She berates herself mentally for forfeiting in a moment of weakness, but she can't take it back.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to beg," Moriarty breathes.

He leans forward, his lips brushing against the shell of Anthea's ear, moving his hand further up her thigh, "Again," he demands. "I want to hear you to beg."

Anthea shakes her head slightly, knowing she has made that mistake once already. She knows can't hold out much longer, but from the looks of it, neither can he. Moriarty is becoming visibly frustrated, and she feels his erection twitch against her thigh.

"Beg for me," his growl is insistent.

She takes a deep breath, which is made difficult by Moriarty's body weight bearing down on her chest. "And if I don't?" her voice is shaky, but he doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he lets out a frustrated groan.

"You're making this  _so_ much more difficult than it has to be," his voice is so low and quiet that Anthea feels the words more than hears them.

"I thought you liked a challenge," she dares, having regained a bit of confidence and composure, though she can still feel her legs trembling slightly.

He looks into her eyes with a mixture of loathing and fascination.

His eyes open, and locked on hers, Moriarty grasps her hips with surprising strength, thrusting forward into her, causing her to cry out with welcome pleasure.

"Oh, God," Anthea wonders absently if that will contribute to his God-complex as she closes her eyes.

Moriarty squeezes his own eyes shut, thrusting deep and fast and surprisingly desperate. He sighs, making them both shudder, and his breath hitches as he leans forward and braces his hands on either side of Anthea's head.

His breaths are becoming more and more uneven – soft, muffled gasps and shaky exhalations. This may be the one moment that the mastermind is not completely in control - of the situation or his mental faculties. Moriarty is always willing to do what it takes to get what he wants, but this goes beyond simple desire. He is careening recklessly towards fulfilling a base  _need_.

Anthea gasps, "You need me, James." Her eyes flutter open, staring directly into his, which open as she speaks, "Admit it."

He looks defiantly into her eyes, but says nothing as he continues thrusting. Anthea reaches for his hips, bracing her elbows against the edge of the bed.

She feels his muscles tense as he tries to move his hips forward, but meets with too much resistance. Moriarty squeezes his eyes shut in concentration.

"Fuck. Yes..." he resigns, and Anthea slowly slides her hands from his hips to his arse, pulling him closer. As his knees threaten to give, he rolls his hips in a quick rhythm, licking and biting his bottom lip.

"James Moriarty, you are mine," Anthea insists. For a moment, she registers a brief glimpse of complete detachment in the consulting criminal's eyes as she convulses with pleasure. Then his eyes are shut again, and he finishes with a shuddering breath.

It takes a matter of mere seconds before Moriarty visibly clicks back into control. Even as muscles visibly relax, the domineering man re-emerges and takes control of the situation, "Well played!" he chuckles, voice low and barely above a whisper. He stands casually, reaching for his discarded clothing.

Anthea reaches for her own, "I rather thought so."

Moriarty looks up from buttoning his shirt to give her a devilish grin, "I was right about you."

Anthea draws her eyebrows together, "About what?"

"You're not ordinary," he admits, "But you  _are_  a bit foolish."

Anthea looks slightly offended, "How so?"

He whispers into her ear as he buttons his last button, "Do you have any idea who you're playing with?"

She pauses for a moment.

He waves a careless hand, "Of course you don't. That's what makes this so  _fun_." His childlike glee is unsettling, "Most people would have had the sense to run screaming by now. You know what I'm capable of. Better than most, in fact."

"And I should be frightened by that, should I?" She keeps a straight face, despite the disturbing comment.

Moriarty shrugs, with an expression and tone that mock pity, "Your choice."

"I know," Anthea remarks coolly, vaguely aware that even if it is her choice, she has every intention of playing along until the end. Which really means Moriarty is still pulling the strings. She does, however, intend to put up a good fight along the way, and if she goes down, it will be kicking and screaming if necessary.

Moriarty smirks, "Now... Why don't we get you home before your boss deduces whose bedroom you've been in all this time?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, there's some fairly graphic violence in this chapter, mostly involving knives and some coercion. Just so you've been warned. But you're reading an M rated Moriarty fic... what did you expect?

The next day, it's splattered across the headlines of every evening paper: "Crime of the Century: Man Attempts to steal Crown Jewels!"

The entire government remains at least slightly aflutter with the news for the next few days. Everyone seems to know about Moriarty's break ins, and his attempted theft. It becomes progressively harder for Anthea to put up with being at work. The primary priority of her superiors is to locate information on the code Moriarty used to break into three separate institutions simultaneously.

Anthea, however, was told by Moriarty over a month ago that there was no such code. It simply doesn't exist. However, in some sense, there is a key – but the key is the man himself. His pure manipulative charm has gained him access to anywhere, any time he wants. In reality, Anthea finds that significantly more impressive. Anyone could potentially implement a few lines of computer code – but it took a great level of genius and charm to orchestrate three simultaneous break-ins while keeping every one of his accomplices coordinated, controlled, and silenced.

The difficulty is knowing that she is constantly being sent on a wild goose chase. There is no code, so there is absolutely no way to discover it. However, to tell Mycroft now would be to admit that she has withheld information of paramount importance. Not only would she lose her job, but there would certainly be serious charges filed against her.

Therefore, Anthea keeps her head down and works on obtaining an impossible goal.

A few weeks later, the trial starts, and evidence is presented. Not a single one of the people who assisted Moriarty comes forward. Moriarty pleads not guilty. The trial evidence consists of surveillance footage, testimony from security guards and tourists who could place Moriarty at the Tower of London at 11:00 that morning. Sherlock Holmes himself is brought in to testify as an expert, and Moriarty offers no defence.

At the end of it all, there is not a shadow of a doubt in the eyes of the public that Moriarty is absolutely guilty of attempting to steal the crown jewels.

And yet the jury declares that he is not guilty.

Five days of secret and controlled governmental panic ensue. No one wants to admit that Moriarty has, once again, played the system to his full advantage. No one wants to recognise that someone clearly constituting a public threat is once again roaming the streets of London.

Two months pass without a word from Moriarty. No one, not even Mycroft, with all his CCTV footage and tracking prowess, has seen or heard anything from the consulting criminal. The man has quite simply disappeared without a trace. The government is still looking for him, and the key code, but with absolutely no success.

After a particularly tedious day at work, cross referencing potential sources of the key code, Anthea stops to buy herself a coffee. Stepping out onto the street, her steaming coffee in hand, contemplating how she is going to survive the next few weeks at work, she suddenly feels the cold press of metal against her lower back.

"Into the car," a deep, unfamiliar voice mutters into her ear.

Anthea registers that it's a knife, not a gun, before she tosses her coffee in the face of her would-be kidnapper.

She rounds the corner quickly, only run headlong into the waiting grip of a young man, who pushes a cloth against her nose and mouth.

* * *

The next thing Anthea is aware of is stale air in her lungs, and the buzzing numbness which is settling into her fingers and toes from inadequate blood flow. She stirs and opens her eyes slowly, only to discover that they are covered with a strip of dark cloth.

"Oh, here we are," a gentle, familiar voice announces, not far from her face. She startles a bit, but hopes the the bonds tying her are tight enough that the visible signs of her scare aren't too readily noticeable.

She registers Moriarty's soft laughter, "Didn't mean to  _scare_ you."

"Where am I?" she asks, her tongue feeling slightly heavy and out of place in her mouth.

"Ah. Well, that's for me to know, and your boss to figure out." Anthea can't see him, but she can imagine perfectly the look on his face – a mix of superiority, self-satisfaction, wit, and glee. "He won't accuse you of anything now. Even if he had suspicions before, they should be all cleared up after this little... escapade."

"I was doing just fine, thanks," she protests. "I don't presume you intend to tell me exactly what  _your_ plan is?"

"Oh, no. That would take all the fun out of this particular adventure. But..." she can feel fingers pressing against the knot at the back of the blindfold and the fabric beginning to loosen, "I think we can at least let you  _see_."

"Thank you," she responds sarcastically as the blindfold falls away.

His dark eyes meet hers, and his smirk is exactly how she had pictured it. For once, however, Moriarty isn't dressed in one of his handsome suits. He's wearing jeans, a worn, dark cardigan, an off-white henley shirt with the top three buttons undone. His hair looks like it hasn't been properly combed in days.

Glancing briefly around, she notices that she is tied to a chair in the precise centre of a room quite closely resembling the one Moriarty had been held in several months previously. It is roughly the same size and colour – the only major difference is the complete lack of surveillance. There seem to be no cameras, mirrors, or windows whatsoever.

"Care to explain exactly what it is you intend for  _me_ to do?" she inquires.

"Don't you worry. You're already doing your job quite nicely," he grins. "Mycroft's office will be in a nice uproar by now, and all because of you. You're providing  _quite the distraction_."

Anthea isn't sure if she should feel proud or disgusted. It wasn't her choice to be here, after all. She doesn't necessarily mind helping Moriarty, but up until now it has been  _somewhat_  on her terms.

"And in the meantime?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can come up with  _something_..." he looks as mischievous as Anthea has ever seen him.

The reality of the situation, however, is beginning to set in. She is in Moriarty's custody, isolated, and restrained. Mycroft knows she's missing, but presumably Moriarty has made sure that it will take some time for her to be found. She can feel her heart rate begin to elevate, but takes a few slow breaths before speaking again.

"Are the restraints really necessary?"

"Necessary?" he looks at her as if intrigued, "No... not  _necessary,_ " his eyes narrow, and his head tilts to one side, "But they are a nice addition, don't you think?"

"It would be nicer if they were untied," she suggests, a bit more forcefully than she had intended.

He rolls his eyes emphatically, "Well that wouldn't quite be fair, now would it? I'm sure you recall when we first met..."

She interrupts without making the conscious decision to do so, "Of course I do, but I don't see why..." she trails off, realisation dawning in her eyes.

"Now you're getting it!" he smiles with glee. "I do love it when things come full circle. It adds a certain satisfying sense of... completion."

She tries hard not to sound like she's begging, "Can you at least  _loosen_  these? My fingers are turning purple." She tries to flex them, feeling her muscles pull with difficulty.

"Oh, I suppose so," he sighs as he pulls on the restraints, one at a time. The knots don't move much, but it's enough to allow regular blood flow to her extremities.

"So. You just expect me to sit here like this?" Anthea nods down at the chair.

He shrugs. "It doesn't look like you have much of a choice."

"I suppose not," she resigns in as dignified manner as possible under the circumstances.

A few seconds pass in complete silence before Moriarty starts again, "Right. Back to business. Well... I  _say_  business..." he rolls his eyes again, suggesting that he means something else altogether.

Anthea sighs, "What business?"

"The business I brought you here for, of course," he gestures broadly with both hands.

"I thought you weren't going to tell me."

"I changed my mind. You're a big girl... I think you can handle it."

Anthea huffs indignantly.

"You see, your dear boss and his brother were getting a little too close for comfort. Something had to be done, and what could be better than kidnapping Mycroft's right hand woman? Now his attention will be focused on you," he explains.

"If he's looking for me, then he's looking for you too. You're the one who kidnapped me in the first place."

"Did I? I wasn't there, though I heard that it was quite a show," he feigns innocence, but his sarcasm is obvious. "Daring move with the coffee, by the way..." he smiles his approval. "At any rate, the point is to waste Mycroft's time. I've got much bigger things to worry about, and I need him looking in the other direction."

"So, how long do you intend for this distraction to last?" she demands.

He looks and sounds annoyed, "Have I ever told you that you ask too many questions?"

She considers apologising, but decides against it. "Well, what are we going to do now?"

His eyes develop a mischievous twinkle, "Did you have anything in mind?"

Anthea takes a calming breath as she contemplates an answer.

"Go ahead - you can say it," he hints suggestively. "It's not exactly a  _secret_  what's going through that head of yours..."

Anthea looks into his dark, anticipating eyes, but says nothing. She won't give him the satisfaction, but she won't resist either if he suggests it first.

Moriarty leans forward and whispers into Anthea's ear, "You want me."

This time, there are absolute shivers down her spine. This is a terribly precarious situation, not to mention a terrible idea. Yet somehow, Anthea can't quite bring herself to voice her discontent. He would know she was lying if she were to deny it outright anyway.

He brings his face back, locking eyes with hers and smirks. Anthea steels her gaze, but she can feel her composure slipping around the edges. There is something about that shark-like look that makes her absolutely want to melt.

"And darling,  _I aim to please_ ," he adds, rocking his head from side to side, both of them fully aware of the irony that is implied.

This time, it's Anthea who leans forward as far as she is able, bringing her lips close enough to brush Moriarty's.

"Oh, no, no," he pulls away, laughing manically. "This time, you'll do whatever  _I_ say," he smirks.

Anthea looks directly into his eyes, defiant.

"It's only fair that I get  _my_  turn, after our first time," he reaches down, his hand hovering over the button of her trousers for a moment before pulling the metal through the hole in the fabric.

They lock eyes, Anthea not wanting to say anything as Moriarty pulls her trousers and pants down to her knees. "Last chance to say no," he warns, but Anthea remains silent.

"Good," he croons. "I knew that it would just take time for you to trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"

She certainly doesn't trust him in most regards, but she trusts him enough for this. "Yes," the word is spoken so softly Moriarty barely hears it.

He smiles as he forces his lips against hers, biting savagely at her lips, his tongue periodically running across the underside of her lips and darting into her mouth, sliding across her tongue. His left hand grabs a fistful of her hair and  _pulls_.

Anthea moans against his mouth, knowing that if he is going to have full control, she might as well enjoy it – especially if it means that Moriarty is going to take his time to pleasure  _her_  for a change.

"Now," he orders, "I don't want you to hold back this time. I know you've been holding out on me, and it's about time we correct that. Let's practice, shall we?" He runs a hand along the inside of Anthea's bare thigh, and she suppresses a gasp, opting instead to inhale sharply though her nose.

"What did I say about holding back?" he warns. For the first time, she notices his left hand trailing toward what looks suspiciously like a gun in his jeans pocket.

Her eyes widen, locking onto Moriarty's, but she says nothing.

"Let's try that again." He draws his hand along her thigh again, and this time Anthea inhales unevenly through her open mouth.

He grins, inching his hand further up her thigh, eliciting a soft, but desperate sound from Anthea's throat.

"Prefect. Now beg," he hisses, stopping his hand and firmly grasping her leg. "Tell me how much you want this." He presses his lips to hers briefly and delicately, causing Anthea's breath to hitch completely.

She only hesitates a moment, casting a quick glance to his pocket before sighing, "Please, James... I..." she swallows heavily, "I need you."

The self-satisfied grin on Moriarty's face is enough to make her tremble, but the addition of one finger slowly sliding inside her forces her eyes flicker shut, as much as she wants to maintain eye contact.

"Oh, god," she murmurs. " _Please_."

Moriarty curls another two fingers inside, and Anthea positively moans as his fingers begin to slide in a slow but exquisite rhythm.

"You love being at my mercy," he whispers, "Admit it."

He stops moving his fingers until she answers, "Oh god, yes." It's not a lie. As fun as playing the power game has been, nothing up to this point has been as satisfying as giving away her power completely. She can forget about responding and fighting back and simply  _feel_.

"Now that we're not holding back," he suggests, "Why don't you  _show_  how much you want me," he holds his hand still, just barely inside her, looking into her eyes expectantly.

Anthea huffs impatiently, but the proximity of his hand and the lack of slide is enough to make her roll her hips forward, hard, her eyes flickering shut again as she does so. She rides his hand until she can feel the chords binding her ankles dig into her skin so hard they begin to burn. She hisses at the pain, but keeps moving.

She knows Moriarty is watching her carefully, but she can't bring herself to open her eyes to look at him. Her orgasm beginning to build, she rocks her body more frantically, her breath escaping in short gasps and moans, punctuated with all the various forms of Moriarty's name and strings of obscenities. Finally she feels the release as she convulses around Moriarty's hand, and gasps his name a final time. Suddenly his hand is gone.

She groans with unabashed disappointment. Her eyes flash open, her breathing still heavy. Moriarty presses his fingers against her lips, and she gladly takes them into her mouth, sucking and licking them, tasting herself. He shoves his hand deeper into her mouth, dangerously close to triggering her gag reflex. Anthea breathes slowly through her nose as she bobs her head, drawing her tongue in between his fingers.

Moriarty draws his fingers from her mouth, and Anthea sighs with dissatisfaction. "Well, well, well," he tsks, "You did want me after all."

Anthea looks directly at him, trying to hide the disappointment and slight confusion behind her eyes.

"Oh, you weren't done?" he mocks, pulling her trousers back up around her waist.

Anthea legitimately doesn't know how to answer, but Moriarty interprets the breathy sigh that escapes her lips as affirmation of her physical desire.

"Too bad," he chastises. "Daddy's had enough now."

The confusion on Anthea's face has become altogether too clear. Moriarty rolls his eyes, wiping his hand on a handkerchief extracted from his right pocket.

"You're too ordinary," he scoffs. "You've given too much away now, and there aren't any more  _surprises_."

Anthea sits in stunned silence as Moriarty explains, "You see, I always knew it would come to this. You once told me that you don't always do what you're told... but you'll do anything I ask now. It's  _pathetic_."

"I was supposed to risk you shooting me instead?" she asks defiantly, nodding toward the gun in his pocket.

"At least that would have been  _interesting_ ," he wrinkles his nose with derision.

Anthea's voice is slightly distant when she replies firmly, "I only did what I thought I had to do."

"That's not the  _POINT_!" he shouts, his voice reverberating in the enclosed space. "The point isn't what I  _made_ you do, the point is that  _you wanted it_. The fact is that you've given in – and that makes you  _boring_."

Steeling her gaze, Anthea looks defiantly as she can manage into Moriarty's dark eyes, resolving to stay silent until he finishes his tirade.

"You people, you want some things so badly that you start to believe your little fantasies are really true. You wanted  _me_ , so you wanted desperately to believe that I wanted  _you_ , and that was your final mistake. What's even worse is that you deluded yourself. You thought, 'Oh, I don't  _really_  have feelings for him. It's all about the business and the  _sex,_ '" he mocks. "It wasn't even ever about the sex. You thought I just wanted information, and that the sex was an added bonus. But this was  _all_  about the  _game_ , and the saddest part is, it's not even a game about _you_. It never was. You were just one  _tiny_  piece of the puzzle, and I could have done without you. Your information wasn't entirely useless, but I could have gotten it elsewhere. Not to mention some of your accounts were decidedly... inaccurate."

Anthea sighs at the accusation, despite the fact that it's true. Admittedly it had been a bold move, and she had been wondering if she could get away with it. Apparently, she couldn't.

"Surely you didn't think I'd fail to notice," he chides. "You weren't my only source, and when the evidence doesn't match, it means someone has been  _lying_  to me," his voice becomes a snarl. "But," his composure is instantly regained, "I can forgive that if it means you were playing the game..."

She nods solemnly.

"You played quite well, considering how average you are," he admits, "Though there  _were_  times I wondered if that was an accident. But, just because you play doesn't mean you win.  _No one beats me_."

Anthea does her best to look indifferent. She had known all along that losing this game of theirs was a possibility. Just because it was anticipated, however, doesn't mean that it is less dangerous or disheartening.

"I have enjoyed this, you know... making you fall..." His smile is absolutely merciless, "First onto your knees, then into my bed, and now under my complete control," he smirks. "You'll do anything I ask, and at this point you don't even have to _want_  to do it. I can break you if you stray just one _teensy_ bit out of line. And, of course, the best part is that you knew exactly what was going to happen when you started – and you did it anyway."

Anthea swallows against the knot in her throat.

"It's fascinating that someone smart enough to see right through the trap would still walk into it willingly. Did you think you were clever enough to work your way out, or were you just looking for trouble?"

Anthea doesn't answer, looking away instead.

"Oh, I see!" He practically dances with glee, "You thought maybe you were clever enough, but you didn't care if you lost. The fun was all in the game, and honey, you lost.  _It was a good game_ , but I'm bored now.  _I simply don't need you_."

She swallows nervously and blinks furiously in a more or less futile attempt to keep tears from forming, realising for the first time the full implications of boring Jim Moriarty.

"Are you afraid I'm going to kill you?" He exaggerates a frown, but raises his eyebrows. "That  _is_  what tends to happen to people I don't need any more..." He steps closer, left hand reaching into the left pocket of his jeans, running a finger along the barrel of his gun.

"But no," he stops approaching, "I have a better idea. I don't have to worry about you. Your job and your life depend on you keeping quiet, and silence seems to be something you do quite well. I don't have to worry about you because you were never a threat – and quite frankly, you're not worth the bullet."

Her eyes screw shut tightly, managing to prevent tears.

"The way I see it, you have two options. One, you tell Mycroft what we've been up to, and then face the music.  _Or,_  you do  _exactly_  as I tell you. If you keep your end of the bargain, I promise I won't tell Mycroft all the  _scandalous_  details of our little affair, and you walk out of here alive. You can keep your tedious desk job, and the government won't execute you for treason. On the other hand, if you would rather bite the bullet, I'm sure that could be arranged..."

"Go to hell," Anthea says with the flattest tone she can manage.

Moriarty's laugh is eerily hollow, "So  _now_  you're talking again. I knew you'd put up a fight eventually. You can't resist, can you? You're very lucky... You've managed to keep me entertained long enough, but I think it  _would_  be best if you stopped pushing your luck."

Anthea wrinkles her nose with contempt, but once again elects to say nothing.

"Good enough. Now. Don't get  _too_ comfortable. I may be sparing your life, but you won't be leaving unscathed. We  _do_  have to make it look like you've been interrogated, or dear Mycroft won't believe this little charade... and I'd be lying if I said it weren't going to hurt.

"But then again, it  _is_  your own fault, isn't it? I warned you what you were getting yourself into... but of course you didn't listen. The independent ones never do. They have to be taught the hard way. Now..." he considers her carefully, scrutinising every feature, "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

She regains her courage enough to ask, "And what do you mean by that?"

"Well," he grins, "You know I generally don't like getting my hands dirty... and struggles tend to be  _awfully_  messy. So, I can keep you tied here, and you let me do whatever I want,  _or..._  I can let you loose and bring in my dear friend Sebastian to do the dirty work for me. And I can guarantee he won't be any gentler." He shrugs, "But it's your choice."

Anthea sits dumbfounded, trying to pick the least offensive option. On one hand, he would love for her to be at his absolute mercy – again. But in all honesty, when she thinks about it, Anthea is at his mercy either way, and there doesn't seem to be any escaping that. A big part of her would rather deal with the known devil than his unknown accomplice. She knows what Moriarty is capable of, to an extent... but if he would be willing to let her loose to face Sebastian, it's possible he's capable of doing substantially more damage. She would have the illusion of fighting back, but at what cost?

Moriarty is clearly relishing the thought processes that he can easily discern from Anthea's expressions as she realises the reality of her situation. His eyes examine every movement of her muscles as she shifts uncomfortably.

It's a trick, without a doubt – but the whole point is that there  _is_  no right answer. The veil has been lifted, and there is no possible option that would allow to work her way out of this. Both of the answers are wrong, and there is no longer the illusion that she might be clever enough to win. The worst part is that Moriarty is right about another thing. She  _has_ developed feelings for him. She never intended to, and she was able to entirely deny them until now. The adrenaline of the game and the mastermind's brilliance have been captivating. Even though she loathes him now, she has lingering respect for a man who managed to play her so completely and without effort.

Anthea therefore makes up her mind that at least if she's going to lose, she can try to enjoy losing. She will see her decision through to the end, and if she can't enjoy it, at least she will be able to see the brilliant master stroke of Jim Moriarty.

"You," she mutters.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Moriarty cups his hand to an ear and leans closer.

She steadies her voice, "I want you." She automatically cringes at the wording.

"Predictable," he sighs, clearly disappointed. "Sentimental, even."

"What do you care?" she accuses, "You're getting what you want, or you wouldn't have given me the option."

"You know me so well!" He smiles slyly, "You're absolutely right. If I thought for one  _second_  that you might have picked Sebastian, he never would have been an option."

"So," Anthea swallows against the knot in her throat. For once trying consciously not to panic, heaviness settling in the pit of her stomach, "Let's get on with it."

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" He smirks, "No... you're still too confident. I told you this was a game – and you've already lost. You don't get to make the decisions any more... not that you ever did. I told the truth when I said that I could break you. Would you like me to prove it?"

Anthea knows he's going to do whatever he wants, no matter what answer she gives. She's given him permission already. "Be my guest," she challenges.

Moriarty walks to the door and looks back. His Cheshire grin is the last thing Anthea sees before the lights go out, and she hears the heavy metal door close behind him.

Everything remains dark and silent for hours. Anthea can't hear a single sound other than her own breathing and heartbeat, and she is sure that if she could lift her hands, she wouldn't be able to see them them directly in front of her eyes. She considers that she's glad she picked Moriarty, even though he was the only real option. She can handle the thought of him returning, even if the prospect isn't a terribly desirable one – but waiting for the unknown Sebastian might have been more than she could handle. Perhaps that made her decision the right one, at least in some sense.

Eventually, her stomach starts to growl, and she realises that it has probably been eight hours since having anything to eat or drink. She begins to wonder if Moriarty intends to starve and dehydrate her. While that's not impossible, Mycroft knows she's missing by now. Hopefully that means she will be found before she can die of thirst... Even Moriarty had made it clear that his intention wasn't to kill her, though he could have been lying.

Anthea scolds herself mentally, knowing that all the questions flitting through her mind at lightning speed are exactly what Moriarty wants. All the questions that should have occurred to her a long time ago are occurring now, in this dark, isolated space. Unfortunately, she doesn't know how to stop herself from having doubts – there are simply too many unanswerable questions. She makes her best effort to make her mind entirely blank, and remains in her state of attempted meditation for a few more hours before the she hears the door click open. Lights suddenly flicker on and blind her.

"Honey, I'm home!" Moriarty's voice ricochets off the walls, his footfalls approaching. "You seem to be holding up," he observes. "Well... perhaps we'll fix that soon enough."

Anthea struggles to open her eyes against the searing pain caused by the bright, florescent bulbs. Moriarty stands a few feet away, a small pocket knife in his left hand. She flinches involuntarily at the sight, but only slightly.

"It could be worse," Moriarty announces in a sarcastically smooth tone.

Anthea does her best to scoff at the comment, but the effort is a somewhat feeble one.

"Now..." Moriarty considers out loud, tilting his head from side to side as if considering his options carefully, "Where to begin?"

He takes a few steps closer, watching closely as Anthea's gaze hardens and her muscles tense with each step he takes forward.

"Still defiant, I see," he notes. "I suppose I wouldn't want to take  _all_  the fight out of you. There's no point in beating a  _dead horse_..." He leans toward her, bringing their eyes to the same level. Anthea notices that his rich brown eyes are completely blank and disinterested. The observation sends more than a shiver down her spine as she realises that she has no idea how to react to a complete lack of emotion. Anger could be met with defiance, excitement with feigned disinterest – but this was a complete and utter lack of anything. Two hollow eyes simply boring into hers.

Perhaps his gaze would best be met with the same vacancy, but with her thoughts rushing, it is completely impossible to keep emotion from her eyes. She feels the knot of absolute panic take hold and seize her stomach, as swallows hard against the sudden urge to vomit.

"That's more like it," Moriarty smirks slowly. The smirk gradually transforms into a grin, and surprisingly, it's an improvement. He pauses a moment, before reaching for the buttons of Anthea's blouse. As he slowly begins to unbutton them, Anthea turns her head away, pretending not to notice Moriarty's fingers grazing across the skin of her chest.

"Look at me," Moriarty demands.

Anthea, however, refuses to move.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. "Oops!" he exclaims pointedly, dragging his left hand after unbuttoning a button, creating a diagonal gash outlining the bottom of Anthea's ribcage. Her eyes involuntarily close, and she inhales deeply, but she manages not to cry out. After a fraction of a second, she opens her eyes again and locks them onto Moriarty's, feeling blood drip down from the open wound, but not daring to look down.

"That's a good girl," he croons. "Too bad doing as you're told  _isn't really going to help_."

He grazes the tip of his knife over her stomach, with just enough pressure to break the skin, but also lightly enough that it creates a tickling sensation. Anthea squirms slightly, causing the knife to dig deeper.

"Careful," he chastises playfully. "Now that I've managed to get your attention," he asserts, "Is there anything else you care to tell me about the Holmes brothers? No lies this time..."

Anthea takes a deep steadying breath, but her voice still shakes when she answers, "I've told you everything I know." She flinches, not knowing what Moriarty's reaction will be to her lack of disclosure, but she honestly doesn't have anything else to tell him.

"What a shame..." he sighs, pulling the sleeves of Anthea's blouse over her arms, meeting no resistance. "I believe you, but I'm afraid that's  _just not_   _enough_." He repeatedly pulls the blade of the knife over her left arm, creating a series of horizontal cuts spaced only about a centimetre apart. Anthea feels the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she bites the inside of her cheek and holds her breath to prevent the the tears from falling.

Moriarty stops at the inside of her elbow, after twenty parallel cuts. Anthea risks a glance at her arm, noticing that the blood from each cut is dripping down and along the crease of the next, until the rivulets reach her elbow and drip to the floor.

Anthea hisses as she exhales, feeling the sting of each cut, and Moriarty's lips twitch upward at the edges. He sighs contentedly, repeating the same cuts on her right arm, completely concentrated, but eerily seeming simultaneously detached and indifferent.

"Now," he asserts once he has finished, "you're going to do  _exactly_  as I say, as if your life depends upon it. In fact, it does," his smile broadens. "I have a little message for Mycroft, and you're going to be the one to deliver it the next time you see him." He leans forward and whispers something into Anthea's ear.

He leans back again, "Is that clear?"

She nods solemnly, "Perfectly."

"No questions?"

"None," she reassures.

"Well, everything's set then," he says with an air of finality. "I want to thank you for keeping me entertained. There are so many  _boring_  ways I could have gone about this, but this  _has_  been a  _unique_  experience."

Anthea has the strong urge to wipe the smug smile off his face, but her restraints prevent it. She briefly contemplates spitting at him instead, before realising that her mouth is dry from dehydration.

"Now... One last thing," he announces, flourishing the knife before sinking the blade into her right shoulder, and drawing a horizontal cut, stopping at the centre of her sternum. He lifts the knife, positioning it in the centre of the previous cut, creating a curving vertical gash to form the letter 'J'. Another vertical cut from the middle of her sternum, stopping between her breasts, a wide v-shape centred over her left breast, and finally, another vertical laceration down her left side finishing a capital 'M'.

"You. Are. Mine." Moriarty heavily punctuates each word, his mouth brushing against her ear, while his initials slowly trail blood down Anthea's chest.

Standing again, Moriarty looks down at his work. He shrugs and casually tosses away the bloody knife, letting it clatter to the floor. Looking down into Anthea's eyes, which are filled to brimming with defiantly unshed tears, "You won't be seeing me again," he assures. "But remember that I have eyes and ears, and they have their orders. So  _do_  be sure to pass along my little message."

Anthea nods, slightly dazed from her heart pounding in her head and the endorphins which have begun racing through her bloodstream.

Moriarty starts to retreat, whistling cheerfully as he walks.

"Jim?" Anthea's voice is weaker than she expects, and Moriarty doesn't react.

"James!" she shouts with all the authority she can muster, as he reaches for the door handle.

He turns around slowly and raises an eyebrow.

"It's been fun," she states plainly, the edge of contempt in her voice just barely noticeable.

He smirks, " _Ciao, dear._ "

The lights go out once more, and the door shuts – cutting off the sound of Moriarty's footsteps completely.

* * *

When Anthea is found five days later in an abandoned warehouse, Mycroft is sitting in his chair at the Diogenes Club, reading The Sun. The headline announces, "Super-Sleuth is Dead: Suicide of Fake Genius. Fraudulent detective takes his own life."

The three men Mycroft sent to retrieve Anthea open the door to the small, locked room. They find Anthea exactly as Moriarty left her, blouse unbuttoned, bound to the arms and legs of the chair. Scabs have formed over most of her cuts, but rivulets of caked on blood remain.

Anthea looks up at her co-workers and forces a slight smile which doesn't reach her eyes. She looks frail and tired, and her voice is barely a rasp after days of dehydration, "I need to speak with Mycroft."

It's the next day Anthea finally gets her meeting. Mycroft comes to visit her in hospital, looking completely at home in the cold, sterile environment.

"Good to have you back," Mycroft leans on his umbrella, looming by her bedside.

"Sir, I have a message from Mr Moriarty," she claims calmly.

Mycroft looks vaguely surprised for once, "Oh? And what would that be?"

Anthea clears her throat and recites the message verbatim: "'Don't get too comfortable, Mr Holmes.'"

**END**


End file.
